Innerwar
by S.K. Millz
Summary: Don't feel sorry for Dag. Dag's a big boy.


I was pushing balls around a lonesome pool table when from across the room I overheard Treeflower whispering to my brother: I feel sorry for Dag. No one to talk to.

Norb took a swig of whatever it was he was drinking and flung a glance over his shoulder. You feel sorry for Dag, he said.

Ignoring them I lowered my nose to the baizing and bridged the cue between two fingers and whiffed at the little white ball.

Treeflower choked back a giggle. Just look at him, she said. He's lonely.

Listen babe, Norbert replied, gesturing with his glass. Dont feel sorry for Dag. Dag's a big boy. Feel sorry for me for having to live with Dag.

I could feel her eyes on me. I think he's adorable.

He's a halfwit.

A cute one.

An imby-sile.

Those pretty eyes…

You know he had to repeat the first grade?

And that one dimple, on the right side…

He couldnt read until he was eight years old.

And those whiskers…

He picks his nose when he thinks I'm not looking.

I just want to eat him up.

He'll make your teeth rot, babe. And turn your stomach inside-out.

Big talk for a blood brother.

Norbert laughed. Then he downed the last of his drink and said: I dont know. Daggett may be my brother, but he's missing a chromosome or two methinks.

My hands were trembling as I reset the cueball.

Just look at him, Norbert quipped, getting up from the counter, fully aware that I'd been listening. He's lefthanded. He's worthless. When he was born the doctor might as well've put an icepick through his skull. He set down his glass and assumed the role of the doctor: Sorry Mrs Beaver, this is all that's left of him.

Treeflower snorted dismissively, returning to her rum and coke.

Norbert shook his head. Worthless worthless worthless, he breathed. Right, Dag?

I was chalking up the tip of my poolcue, avoiding his gaze, pretending I hadnt heard him.

Imagine a world without Dag, he began, staring off into space. No one to cook for. No one to clean up after. No more snoring late at night. No more stealing. No more Toe Bot or Ranger Dag or Muscular Beaver. I could have my girlfriend over every night. I could leave the dam without being shadowed everywhere I go. I could read a book in peace. I could go to school. I could get involved in politics. I could invite Mom and Dad to the house without feeling embarrassed. I could go on vacation—to Tahiti or the Cayman Islands. I could throw block parties and host barbecues. I'd be a star. A mover and shaker. An absolute hit.

He threw back his head and laughed. That's not to say that I wish you'd never been born, Dag. I wish you'd been born without a mouth. Without eyes. Without hands. I wish you'd been a preemie and died in intensive care. I wish I'd never known you as a brother, but as a footnote. A question. A sad conversation. Something that at the end of the day I could just lay down and fucking _forget._

The air had been all but sucked out of the room. I stood frozen over my cue, lost in all that green.

After a while Norbert sighed triumphantly, rolling his shoulders. Then he wobbled off toward the men's room.

I pocketed the three-ball.

Treeflower didnt speak. Didnt smile. Didnt even protest as I traipsed up the hallway after my brother, poolcue in hand.

The bathroom was cramped. Just wide enough to maneuver around in. Norbert stood hunched over the lower urinal, his hands spread flat against the wall like a suspect waiting to be frisked. The door creaked shut behind me. He flinched. One swing levered the fat end of the poolcue across the back of his skull. His knees buckled. A cloud of splinters drifted through the air. His nose careened straight into the urinal, straight into his own piss. I dropped what was left of the stick and hauled my brother to his feet, then I brushed him off and heaved him facefirst into the mirror. His forehead left a small bullet-shaped pockmark in the glass, surrounded by a spiderweb of fissures. He slipped on a square of toilet paper and lost his balance, toppling to the wet epoxy floor. There was blood squirting from his nose. One eye closed. I grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him bodily to the handicapped stall. A dry yellow crust covered the lip of the toilet bowl. I snatched a roll of toilet paper off the rack and unraveled a swatch of about three or four feet and used it to mummify the top half of his face. Then, gripping his ankles, I tipped his spiky head back into the bowl and pissed into his gaping mouth. He struggled, kicking feverishly. Water sloshed out onto the floor. He was gargling, trying not to swallow too much. A constellation of bubbles rose through the murky water and broke the surface. He couldnt breathe. He was drowning. Thrashing. Fighting. The paper was wet, the wild shape of his eyes soaking through. The fear. Those last desperate prayers.

All I needed.

With a thud his ankles hit the floor and his head whipped free, dripping and choking and gasping for breath and dripping some more. Two fingers peeled back the toilet paper above his nose. Two scared and unfocused eyes peered out.

Imagine a world without Dag.

Treeflower hadnt moved. Neither had her rum and coke.

Barkeep. Beer, I snapped. Instantly a bottle of Corona was in my hand.

Where's Norby? Treeflower asked.

Norby? I'd already guzzled half the bottle. He's just waiting on—eh—the groom of the stool?

That was cruel, you know. What he said about you.

I shrugged.

She touched my hand. I want you to know, she whispered, that I dont feel that way.

There were just a few drops left at the bottom of the bottle. A shriveled lime. In that case, how's about a sympathy date? I grinned.

She grinned back, glancing off to one side. Why not? she winked. So long as Norby doesnt find out.

Tossing my last four dollars to the barkeep I replied: I wouldnt worry about it, my belle. Norby's all wet.


End file.
